Broken
by dreamwithinadream93
Summary: There's a certain pleasure in being broken. In being distinctly 'not whole'. In knowing yourself to be resolutely 'not alright', whatever you might tell people. But sometimes, just sometimes, broken can be beautiful.


**Broken**

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters used here. JKR lives in a much happier universe, trust me!

* * *

There's a certain pleasure in being broken. In being distinctly 'not whole'. In knowing yourself to be resolutely 'not alright', whatever you might tell people.

Hermione dimly remembered that somebody somewhere had said 'There is a pleasure sure in being mad, which none but madmen know'

At the time she hadn't understood it. It had seemed so silly to her to embrace madness, to enjoy it almost. She was certain that she would clasp her sanity with both hands, it was her calmness and rationality that defined her: these were qualities that she valued. But now she knows. That there is a reassurance in holding your crazy in your hands, in cradling it close, in walking into it and allowing it to envelop you. Because sometimes madness can be a comfort, it can protect you against that harsh truth of sanity.

And that's what Hermione did.

After the war, as her friends began to return, at first crawling, then walking, and then running full pelt, to normality, and the little everyday happinesses of set meal-times, shopping trips, day jobs and eventually marriages and families, Hermione retreated in the other direction. Or maybe she just stayed still and got left behind. Who knows really?

She wrapped herself in the madness and found her pleasures in darker places, in self denial and self control, in scars and suffering, in watching her body fade away to nothing, as she became invisible.

At first they'd tried to keep in contact. They weren't bad people of course, and they really did care about her, deep down she knew that, she supposed. And she hadn't made it easy for them. She wasn't really an easy person to know these days. Hogwarts acquaintances had quickly ceased their friendly overtures, put off by the blank stares and shaking hands and the hair that was even wilder than usual. The Weasleys had tried their best, with Ginny dragging her out on interminable shopping trips and Ron doing everything he could to hold together their failing relationship, kissing her unresponsive lips and staying over, night after night, to hold her as she screamed in her sleep. But his frustration got the better of him and he left, begging her as the tears ran down his face, to see someone for god's sake Hermione! See a doctor or something. Just do something, anything, fight a little harder, do a little better, be a little happier because he couldn't take it any more.

She heard later, from someone (she couldn't remember who), that he'd married Lavender Brown. That they were happy. That she was expecting their first child, a boy they thought. By that point Hermione was so far gone that she barely registered the meaning of the words, nodding blankly at this before returning to the darkness.

Harry stayed in contact the longest. He had his own demons to fight, of course, he always had done and after the war they seemed to grow stronger. He was the one person who never felt the need to plaster on a smile in front of her, the one person with whom she was content to merely sit in silence. Or sometimes drink in silence. They rarely talked of what they'd seen, of what they'd done, but when such topics did come up they were faced, straight on, and then discarded – never over-analysed or skirted around. She didn't need to hide with Harry. Nevertheless, she could feel him slowly pushing his darkness away, focusing more on the satisfaction he found in his job at the Auror Office and his dream of building a family and gradually his visits became less and less frequent.

Hermione didn't mind. Misery might love company, but darkness demands solitude. She accepted the fact that she would just drop entirely from their lives, another war casualty to be mourned but not saved.

Then, one day, him.

She'd ventured out into Knockturn Alley to restock her supplies and was slowly edging her way through the grimy streets, when suddenly a tall figure in an ostentatious black cloak swept past her, knocking her off her feet and scattering her parcels. As she knelt, trying with shaking hands to gather her belongings he turned, started, and cried out in a low voice,

'Granger? Sweet Merlin!'

Hermione heard the voice, and the horror within it, and bent her heard forwards, her hair shielding her face. Immediately he was there, kneeling next to her, gathering her things and then lifting her up, ushering her away from the prying glances of strangers in the streets. He guided her into a small dimly lit café and ordered her some tea, although heaven knows it seemed far too pedestrian a drink for such and extraordinary meeting. She didn't even know why she'd allowed herself to be swept along, but she was so tired and shaken that she hadn't had the energy to resist.

Draco Malfoy. That hated enemy of her faraway schoolgirl days. It came back to her now that Harry had mentioned him, had said that he'd changed, reformed even. Had thrown himself and his millions into charity and rehabilitation work, all the while becoming more and more withdrawn. She slowly raised her eyes to his where she saw that the usual revulsion and distaste had been replaced by concern, shock, and perhaps even a certain understanding. They looked at each other for a long time and then he asked,

'Is it bad?'

'Yes,' she said, her voice low, quiet, unsteady. 'It's bad.' And he nodded

They didn't say another word while they were finishing their tea and when they were done he took her home and walked in with her as if there were no need for discussion. Then as she stood, awkward in her own kitchen, while he surveyed the miserable contents of her fridge he turned and said to her,

'Granger, when I was young my father beat me. He used to take his belt to me and then throw me in a cupboard with no light. And that was worse than the beating because then I could hear my mother's screams but I couldn't get out. And as I got older and things became worse he transitioned into crucios: better because they left no physical trace. And in the war, in those long months in Malfoy Manor I saw things and did things the horror of which is unspeakable. And all the money in the world can't undo what I did. And all the drugs and the potions, all the blood and the pain, can't make me forget. I bet you can't forget either, can you? What you did and what was done to you?'

As he spoke she felt a tear escape, the first in a long time. And then another, and another, and then a whole flood until her frail body was shaking so violently that she could barely stand. And he held her. Tight. And she felt that he was shaking too. And they stood like that for a long time.

Sometimes the only way to be truly understood is to find someone who has been equally damaged. Who knows the darkness, its pleasures and its pains. She supposes in a way he saved her. Or maybe she saved him. Perhaps they saved each other. Who knows? Afterwards, when they lie together in a tangle of limbs, they trace each other's scars, the pathways of their anguish and tell their stories. It will take years to learn their origins and even longer to share the tales of those hidden scars, the pain that leaves no mark. But that's ok, they have time.

Slowly the madness receded and Hermione began to welcome the light once more. Scars faded and razor blades were thrown away, drugs discarded and the fridge was no longer barren. And while they both still had nightmares, when they woke, the nightmares ended. Hermione had the Malfoy fortunes at her disposal and began, once more, to champion her causes, fighting for others. And if, on bad days, they chose to draw their curtains and forget the world then who was to judge them. Scars may fade but they don't disappear, not really.

When you are broken, when life has cracked you into pieces and torn fragments of you away, you will never be whole. The madness, the darkness will always be there. But sometimes, two broken people can find that their jagged edges fit together. Sometimes, broken can be beautiful.


End file.
